‘You cannot believe how much the child has secreted in bottles and jars.’
Apparently she’d been describing Lily’s collections while his mind strayed to very naughty places. He schooled himself and strove to produce a relevant reply. ‘It is easy to see you share a closeness despite the significant difference in age.’
‘Yes, my sister is very dear to me.’ When she continued, her voice held a note of seriousness not there before. ‘Lily’s mother is Lady Meredith Rossmore. I believe you danced with her two nights past. I am her stepdaughter, Isabelle Rossmore. Meredith married my father, although we are nearly the same age.’
His eyes observed her conflicted expression, as if much more could be said, but she prevented herself from doing so.
‘At last, things become clearer. And your father, did he pass away recently?’ Constantine exhaled a breath, relieved his question did not cause her unease. He remembered his father’s death with a great deal of emotion. Primarily joy. It appeared Isabelle did not share a close relationship with hers either, as the lady’s response sounded void of sentiment.
‘Over two years now. It is part of the reason we are here in London. Meredith grew tired of mourning gowns and wished to re-enter society in grandiose fashion.’
‘And the other reason?’
Her unexpected laughter provoked him to smile.
‘You.’
Lost in the melody of her voice, Con thought he misunderstood. ‘What did you say?’
‘My stepmother wanted to meet you.’ Her response sounded hesitant. ‘She follows the gossip pages with avid interest and wished to come to London to make the acquaintance of the legendary Earl of Colehill.’
He could imagine the contrary conversations that took place between Isabelle and her stepmother. The lovely lady before him made no attempt to disguise her mocking tone.
He repositioned himself on the blanket and glanced towards Lily as he asked his next question. ‘And do you also read that rubbish?’ He reserved his use of the gossip pages for dirty paintbrushes, but Brooks devoured the paper daily and availed him of the most interesting tidbits bandied about concerning his person. Most written accounts proved flat out exaggeration meant to feed the minds of the simple. He hoped Isabelle did not subscribe to the rags.
‘Good heavens, no.’
She laughed again and he knew her answer to be honest. And refreshing. The women who sought his company often responded with insipid giggles or replied with what they believed he wished to hear. Isabelle’s forthright nature was undeniably appealing.
‘I have not the desire or the time.’ She placed her hands on the skirt of her gown and disturbed a curious ladybug, which took sudden flight. Her voice lowered as she continued. ‘And I am happy for it. I do not believe an iota of what Meredith has mentioned, most especially now that I have shared this morning with you.’
A wry smile twisted his lips. He had earned a good portion of his reputation, but he had no need to share the insight and strove to change the direction of their conversation from his exploits to hers. More pointedly, her beaux.
The latter consideration forced his questions out with impatience. ‘Where are you residing while you visit London? Is it just the three of you?’
A small smile tugged at her lips. Constantine had the sinking feeling he would not like what he was about to hear.
‘We have moved into the Bilmont townhouse across Grosvenor Square.’
Perchance she hadn’t expected him to chuckle once she’d made her confession, but he did, and the sound caused Isabelle to laugh in kind. Her smile reached all the way into her eyes and Con watched her, entranced. His blood hummed with warm anticipation and the urge to lean forward and kiss her ignited with aching ferocity. Then his gaze fell to her mouth and much like the myriad colours he discerned in her hair, he noticed how many different smiles graced her face in the short time he’d known her. Would she offer him the opportunity to learn them all? What if Lily’s words rang true and she had a bevy of suitors standing in line to escort her to London’s events? He overrode the fleeting consideration. He held a distinct advantage. She lived just across the square.
‘You little minx.’ He muttered under his breath and averted his gaze to Lily. ‘No wonder you have been out in the square so often.’
She reached for another section of orange, but he wouldn’t allow himself to watch her bite into the fruit. He was so aware of her physically he didn’t dare fuel the fire by focusing on her rosebud lips. If he kissed her now, she would taste sticky sweet. The thought made him harder still.
‘Lily enjoys the flowers as much as I do. It is convenient having the gardens right outside our doorstep.’
Isabelle glanced at Lily who approached the blanket and Con studied her delicate profile; the gentle slope of her nose and the beautiful long lashes that framed her almond shaped eyes. He hardly knew anything about her, however he was never more intrigued. Granted, the world in which he lived overflowed with ladies who offered him everything imaginable before he possessed the notion to ask. However Isabelle provoked his curiosity – not an easy thing to do – and her motives seemed pure. She did not pursue him for any other reason than to enjoy a picnic in the shade of the upside-down tree. A picnic he initiated through trickery.
An unfamiliar contentment washed over him. He rubbed his fingers together with the sudden desire to pick up his brushes and paint.
Lily plopped down with the awkward grace of a child. A small bundle of Queen Anne’s lace fell from her apron pocket and spilled onto the picnic flannel. She gathered the bouquet of white flowers together and then glanced at them both before she pointed to her sister’s hair. ‘See, I told you Isabelle had bows. The satin one she wears today matches your eyes, Lord Highborough.’ The child released a fit of giggles and Isabelle shook her head as a crease of confusion wrinkled her brow.
‘What are you talking about, Lily?’
Con watched Isabelle’s expression transform to amusement. She cared very much for the little one, although it appeared she protected all other sentiments. Her tone remained neutral when she spoke of her father and a distinct hesitation laced her words when she spoke of her stepmother.
Chagrined, Constantine glanced to the ribbon holding Isabelle’s glorious hair in place. What a bloody fool he was.
Chapter Seven
Isabelle returned to the townhouse near one o’clock and sent Lily upstairs for a well-needed nap. The house stood quiet otherwise. She selected a book of poetry from the shelf in the drawing room and settled into one of the brocade chairs closest to the front windows. She knew, even while she put considerable thought into selecting the volume, that she would never open it. Her mind raced, drawing conclusions and evoking scenarios. Had she betrayed a confidence by telling Constantine Meredith intended on making his acquaintance? She didn’t think so, but shadows of doubt tweaked her conscience with growing conviction now that she’d returned home.
She attempted to assemble a sensible rationalisation. She hadn’t revealed Meredith’s true desire, to pursue a physical relationship. Isabelle shifted in her chair, uncomfortable with the thought, and the book of poems dropped from her lap. Her stepmother was so unlike her in that manner. Isabelle embraced her solitary status, free from a meddlesome chaperone or persistent suitor. She was grateful society considered her safely on the shelf.
She glanced to the book on the floor. It rested beside her sewing basket and she traded the volume for her embroidery hoop, determined to keep her fingers busy while her mind wove through the maze of her thoughts.
Still, today had been enjoyable. She’d thanked Constantine for the picnic and left soon after Lily bounded back to the blanket. It was a mercy the child had. Lord Highborough proved everything the scandal sheets claimed him to be and everything they had not. The contradiction in his character was unsettling. While descriptions of his firm physique and devastating smile filled lines of print, no one reported his charming wit and thoughtful nature or the flashes of emot
ion she’d watched him struggle to control as their conversation meandered through a variety of topics. She could no longer discredit the gossips or the twittering females who hung on his every word and sought to cross his path. It made sense one would become so distracted by his unmatched handsomeness that the subtle qualities might go undetected.
But Isabelle noticed all too well.
And she suspected, while he lived in the public eye, he remained forbiddingly private. As if London society, for all its fanfare and scandal, hardly knew the man she yearned to discover after a few short meetings.
Unsettled by the thought, she removed the needle from the cloth and attempted a few precise stitches. When she paused to assess her progress, her work looked haphazard and careless, and she plucked at the thread with the point of the needle, anxious to rework the pattern.
She swallowed heavily as a ready image of Constantine’s smile swam before her eyes. Good Lord, was she fascinated? True, she wanted to stare at him for ever; to memorise ever minute detail, from the rich sound of his voice to the sensuous curve of his lips.
Good Lord, she was fascinated. Her heart leapt in her chest. How would she ever disguise the emotion from Meredith, or even Lily, for that matter? Her hand stalled, the needle thrust halfway into the cloth, the French knot left incomplete. The last thing she wished to do was betray her stepmother’s trust. Not when Meredith traveled to London with the solitary goal of catching Lord Highborough’s attention. She could never forgive herself if somehow she caused a disruption in Meredith’s plan. She hoped she had not already contributed to its ruin. She closed her eyes and thrust her embroidery back into the basket.
***
Constantine was shown into Lady Newby’s drawing room with expedience, anxious to squelch the many questions that rushed through his mind. Lady Newby knew everyone who moved within the ton. She presented the perfect resource from which to gather information concerning Isabelle Rossmore. Much more dependable information than he’d garnered from her precocious stepsister. He smirked at how fast his anger had spiked when in error he assumed several gentlemen pursued Isabelle. He tapped his boot in impatience against the marble parquet flooring and waited for the dowager to enter.
While guests described Constantine’s home as the finest in the square, the interior of Lady Newby’s townhouse equaled his own. Elaborate papering decorated each wall and expensive imported furniture filled the interiors. Crystal chandeliers hung above and tasteful ornamental decor graced every room. Although Lady Newby kept her four nieces in London, no one could ever guess a brood of hellions, as she referred to them with affection, lived under the same roof. Everything seemed in its proper place, impeccably clean, and of the finest quality.
He glanced to the large landscape that graced the wall not far from where he stood. The painting depicted his view from the south side windows of Highborough House. He kept a small vineyard there, while his larger winery investments remained in France and Italy. He’d gifted the work of art to Lady Newby upon her seventieth birthday, but now as he glanced to the painting it thrust his thoughts in an alternate direction. Eleven of his works remained lost and he’d be damned if they fell into the hands of a thief. He made a mental note to speak to Brooks about it when he ventured home. At least this painting hung exactly where it belonged, in the home of a long time family friend.
Lady Newby entered while he remained in front of his own artwork. Fortunately he never confessed to painting it or how vainglorious he might then have appeared.
Gertrude Newby, Giddy to her friends, may have seen over seventy years, but her age did not diminish her air of aristocracy. She presented fashionable elegance and effortless sangfroid in a delicate frame, more strength than vulnerability, and her beauty shone bright despite the years that had passed. He pressed a sincere kiss of greeting to her cheek before they both settled in chairs and accepted tea offered by a ready servant. Having shared frequent afternoons in quiet conversation, the immediate comfort that enveloped the room was expected and welcomed.
‘What is it that brings London’s favourite hell-raiser to call upon me this afternoon?’ She eyed him with a brief smile. ‘Make no mistake, I am happy for it. I have not had the opportunity to offer a proper thank you for yesterday’s incident in the square. I am certain it became the subject of everyone’s dinner conversation. You enjoy keeping your name on everyone’s lips.’
Her affectionate tone smoothed the underlying accusation in the words and Constantine nodded in agreement although he dropped the grin as he averted his gaze. London chose him to revere, not the other way around. He would be far happier to blend into a more normal existence.
Then, almost as if Giddy could read his mind, she continued his thoughts aloud. ‘You should hold your father to blame. He set the stage for your acceptance here in London. Although at times a difficult man, he was very well respected and made his own mark on this fine city.’
Constantine cleared his throat. ‘My father lived a very social life by choice. His reputation left me little alternative.’ Any memories of his complicated history belonged buried alongside his father. His closest friends showed him respect whenever questions of his privacy arose, and while at times the façade of his lifestyle proved exhausting, it was easier to pretend to be the toast of the ton rather than expose the past he endured at the torment of his sire. He would not relish this afternoon spent in Giddy’s company if she intended to discuss his family history.
‘Your father’s status for fine entertaining will never be duplicated. His parties here in London were spectacular. You say you inherited your reputation more than earned it, but I know a scoundrel when I see one.’ Giddy winked in his direction and continued despite his scowl. ‘You are not so much like him in that way. I believe you enjoy life thoroughly. Your father had a mysterious depth to his countenance I could never quite understand.’
His father was a useless piece of offal. Con had celebrated the day he died. And he did hold his father to blame, for a great many things. Of course, he could not share these sordid facts with Giddy. Among other things, the late earl introduced Giddy to Lord Newby all those years ago. ‘My father’s extravagance here in London did not carry over to our country home. Life was much quieter at Highborough House.’
‘You say.’ Giddy took a sip of tea. ‘Well, he was always very generous with donations for my charities and never hesitated with funds. He contributed to projects I merely mentioned in passing.’
Con nodded in answer and studied the dowager’s appreciative expression. She never saw the hateful side of his father, nor experienced the evil maltreatment he reserved for his family, behind closed doors, away from the prying eyes of polite society.
‘His memory pains me so.’ Constantine clenched his jaw at the sudden rush of bitter memories. At his father’s hand, he experienced profuse cruelty. That experience, more than anything, drove him into society’s perspicacious eye and provoked him to return to the same tired social events year after year, hungry for the affirming attention. ‘Although another topic plagues me today.’ He drained his teacup, wishing it held brandy instead. He needed to change the subject or he would never be able to hold his tongue.
‘But of course, pardon me, I am prattling on.’
He offered Giddy one of his most polished smiles although his stomach churned with the path of his consciousness. ‘I appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice. As always, you look lovely.’
‘Legendary charm. That is what you have, young man. Legendary charm.’ She smoothed the skirt of her gown and the diamond rings on her fingers caught the glittering sunlight that filtered through the window. ‘Now what is the reason you have chosen to call?’
He exhaled and forced himself to dismiss the lingering unpleasantness of his memories. ‘I have come with a question. You introduced me to Lady Rossmore at the Rochester event.’
‘Oh, well done.’ Giddy beckoned for a servant to refill their cups. ‘Lady Meredith is newly arrived in London. You set t
he tone for her acceptance by sharing the midnight waltz.’ She paused and her expression altered. ‘Although it was mentioned to me you gained the dance through the help of a footman. Spare me the story if this is another of your scandalous adventures. Lady Rossmore and her stepdaughter are well-cut quality. I will not entertain tomfoolery where they are concerned.’
A small cat appeared out of nowhere and after a graceful leap settled into Giddy’s lap. Its lush grey fur reminded him of Isabelle’s entrancing eyes and his mood eased. ‘None at all. You have my word.’ He watched as Giddy stroked the cat’s fur with affection.
As a child he had owned a wolfhound of the same silvery colour. The pup followed him everywhere until his father kicked the dog to death after it snatched an unattended scrap from the table. Years later as his father wasted away from consumption, his sickly eyes still contained the same bitter anger even until death.
The fire cracked in the box and he forced himself to the present subject, anxious to learn more about the woman who held him ensorcelled. ‘Actually I would like to ask you about Lady Isabelle.’
‘She is not for you.’ Giddy’s countenance changed in a heartbeat, her words laced with a proprietary tone. She reached forward and passed the cat to the carpet. Then she folded both hands in her lap and shook her head in the negative as if she wished her message to be crystal clear. ‘Find yourself a lush widow if you are feeling randy. Dally with the ladies that trail after you at every social event, or if you prefer, find some nondescript doxy to keep tucked away as your mistress, but do not think to engage in anything nefarious with Lady Isabelle. The two ladies have my guidance and protection. The very last thing I would desire is for Isabelle to fall prey to your roguish activities.’ She offered him a tight smile, this one not at all warm like her previous expressions. ‘Take no offence, Constantine, but while the gossipmongers enjoy embellishing your activities, I am not so aged that I do not realise there is a heavy amount of truth found in each scandal.’
To Love a Wicked Scoundrel Page 7
